The sun in my mouth
by Lilith Morgana
Summary: Aric Jorgan/Female Trooper told in drabbles, ficlets and scenes.
1. Hit the ground running (Ord Mantell)

"Well, this is too good to be true," the new whelp drawls on Ord Mantell and Aric wishes he could switch her off, but it seems her cocky mouth is here to stay. Just his blasted luck. His entire career has been destroyed and she's boasting about her own progress, already pulling her new-found rank. Arrogant little _brat_.

"Don't get used to it," he mutters under his breath; she looks at him and smirks but says nothing else.

Don't get used to it, _ _Sir__ _,_ he reminds himself and wants to put a white-hot load of plasma in something.

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Erviel stands in front of her only shipmate – and the only soldier currently under her command - with two mugs of coffee in her hands. She gives him one and leans against the wall panel, sipping her own.

"Still angry?" Her voice is deliberately neutral but it's hard not giving in to the temptation and tease him. Even with everything they've been through he strikes a ridiculously obstinate chord in her, spurs her least pleasant instincts somehow, urging her to keep poking at the wound though she normally wouldn't. __Wouldn't you?__ She's not spiteful, not __really__. It's just that way he has of speaking to her like she's incapable of making decisions. The word _rookie_ that hangs unspoken above and in between everything he says. That arrogance and self-importance, the imperious attitude so common among high-ranking officers, twisting his carefully detached words into ammunition.

She's experienced no shortage of __that__ in her life.

 _ _Aw, if it isn't Arora and Lee's brat; let's see what you can do then, little girl.__

 _ _Ah well, the apple occasionally do fall far from the tree.__

Even with a near-perfect service record and with her parents long gone, she's never rid of this particular slice of the past. The measuring up, its constant competition. Her mum had been a legendary fighter pilot, her dad a renowned field medic and it hadn't mattered to anyone that Erviel herself had tried to forge a path far from both of those areas. The ghosts of her parents, the long shadows they cast, have never truly left.

She takes a mouthful of coffee, swallows it quickly and feels it burn in her throat.

"Yes, I am," Jorgan retorts harshly - but not as harshly as he had spoken a couple of days ago when they left Ord Mantell together and he had clarified to her that he's a professional who'll follow orders. Even orders from _a_ _ _careless, undisciplined rookie__. They've made it off-planet since then and the worst disbelief and disappointments have rubbed off against new encounters and complex missions unfolding but he's still steel and silence in her presence. And such a prideful bastard that she almost can't help herself any time she spots a crack in his armour.

She opts for generosity today, however, feeling too tired for a quarrel. "It was unfair, what happened to you."

He gives her a long glance as though he's convinced she's mocking him and he's ready to berate her for it. But then he nods, curt and guarded, but not as closed-off as he normally is. For a brief moment, he looks at her as one would look at someone one vaguely respects – or at least tolerates.

 _ _Baby steps__ , she tells herself and refrains from sneering.

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She's not as reckless as his initial impression of her had made him fear, but she's still new to the burden of command and Aric watches, wearily, for any missteps along the way. Confidence may fool many people but it has never fooled him and that strategy has served him well for fifteen years of military service. He's never had any reason before to doubt his own judgement and damned if he's going to let a bunch of cowardly bastards make his confidence falter now.

"Do you get it?" The lieutenant leans against the wall, watching him as he tends to the arsenal of weapons they've stocked up on. It's a soothing occupation and has always been. Practical, hands-on.

He looks up briefly; there's a hard edge to her that often clash against her fairly young age and today it seems particularly prominent. "Get what, sir?"

"Defecting."

"Is this a questioning or small talk?" His voice comes off as sharper than intended but these are special blasted times and he's sick of how the very word creeps into everything, like a disease takes over your body. _Defecting_.

She throws him a glance that tells him she is just on the verge of being annoyed. "It's a reality," she says. "People defect all the time for a lot of shitty reasons. I've just never seen it so close before."

Aric thinks of Tavus and Fuse, thinks of their long debriefings and off-duty hours stationed on Ord Mantell. No, they were never friends. He doesn't have friends. But they were a _team_ and he usually prides himself on being able to know what makes people tick. Bitterness he understands, revenge he understands even better, but he can't seem to open up that vein in himself, can't seem to let those emotions run him over even when they twist and shift in his blood. It takes a certain something that he doesn't possess.

Tavus had been a good man once. Perhaps he still is. That doesn't change the fact that Aric wants to put his rifle to the man's forehead and pull the trigger. It's dark thought, but nonetheless true. There's a generous serving of grey in the middle of their clear-cut orders and regulations even if everybody acts like they never notice it.

War breaks people and they need someone to blame. A CO had told him this many years ago. When he tells his own CO – her rank still makes something in his chest sting, if only a little and much more subdued than a couple of weeks ago – she looks at him for a long time.

"I suppose," she says eventually.

He tries to picture her broken and in need of scapegoats, wills the image of her to transform. It's almost impossible to imagine her stubborn courage and the rest of her well-trained, self-confident attributes in a situation like that. He finds that it reassures him in a weird way, answers some questions he hasn't even been asking.

"Well. Let me know if you feel the urge to defect," he says, only half-joking.

The lieutenant observes him, a half-smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "So you can turn me in to Garza and let her have her way with me?"

Aric shrugs, turning away from her again. "Something like that, sir."


	2. Protocol (Coruscant)

On Corucsant, it feels vaguely like she's drowning.

The events on Ord Mantell catches up with her – a cold chill down her back, a jolt of adrenaline to her system at the most unexpected of times - as she moves across those fancy pavements in the best parts of the very heart of the Republic where the political turmoil of its capital does nothing to make her feel less overwhelmed.

At least she's not alone in it.

"It's gorgeous here," Erviel says as they head for the Senate tower. "Didn't think I'd get to see this."

"This is limited to the elite," the sergeant replies, quiet and composed as ever; he nods towards a pair of tall towers glittering in the sun. "The less important people are left in the undercity, at the mercy of the gangs and the slavers."

She doesn't have to ask where his sympathies belong or where he, perhaps, once had belonged himself; his posture, that angry little fire at the very bottom of his gaze speaks louder than words. There's the limitations of her upbringing right there, the lack of perspective, the missing links to the rest of the galaxy. The whole universe that isn't defined by regs and protocol and hard regimens of blaster training and survival simulations. The whole universe that runs on other things, far less suited for breaking down into understandable, well-organised charts.

Charts are her thing. Corrupted senators and complicated chains of galactic politics belong to the category that really aren't.

"I've no idea." She looks down at the evidence in her hand, resting behind the seemingly unimportant shell. It's a confession, of sorts, the fact that she tells him at all. An admitted defeat. "About any of this. Blasted politicians."

For a while they're both silent, then Jorgan clears his throat. "I'd have exposed her, sir."

"Yeah?" she asks and he nods once and very definitely, a gesture of certainty. __If you can't feel it, fake it.__ Who told her that? Good advice, at any rate. "I guess you're right. The people of Coruscant deserve the truth."

"The people of Coruscant deserve a lot more than that." There's a tone in his voice that makes her look at him but he averts his gaze before she has time to catch it and the moment passes by, unmarked.

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On Coruscant, Aric half-expects her to drop his name when the interrogators repeat that one question he has been asking himself over and over and over. It sounds as foul in their mouths as it does in his head, its implications as frustrating.

"Do you believe that anyone serving on Ord Mantell should have seen this situation coming?"

The lieutenant doesn't hesitate; her voice is clear and low, a voice of command and authority.

"No, I don't believe anyone could have seen this coming," she says and for a fraction of a second Aric believes her.

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On Coruscant, they become a squad again as duty and purpose pull them together regardless of everything else. They fall into a simple, comfortable rhythm together – simple because it doesn't require much beyond cooperation and comfortable because it's a relief to be a soldier when it's all you know. The firm structure of it pressed into their shapes, protocol and regulations in their blood and bones, __yes__ _ _sir__ , __right__ _ _away__ _,_ _ _sir__ and it's like __breathing__.

"That could have gone worse," Jorgan half-mutters from the dusk of the cantina.

"Such praise! Careful there, it might go to my head." Erviel puts down two glasses on the table in front of him and takes a seat. He looks at the drinks and then at her; she shrugs. "You're off the clock, sergeant, don't worry. Thought you said this place had the best Corellian whiskey on Coruscant."

Though he probably didn't mean he had any intention of finding out in her company, she adds to herself. __Tough luck, Jorgan.__ The Havoc squad is going to be short on members for a long while yet, they'd better make the best of what they have.

"Never thought you paid attention to details, sir," he states flatly and reaches for his drink.

"If they're about booze or guns, I do."

He glances at her, something irritated in his gaze – no shock there, of course. She figures by now that he doesn't run on blood like the rest of them, instead he seems fuelled by an endless supply of disapproval and ideas for improvement. It makes him an excellent soldier, a good man (probably) and a huge pain in the ass.

"You've got a perfect service record," he says then, as though that would be a direct contradiction to her earlier remark. Perhaps it is. But that way she'll always have the upper hand, carrying the surprise card.

"I'm good at what I do." She thinks of all those months and years of training and her breathless, __mindless__ determination to always come out on top, always win, always prove herself against the rest of the galaxy. She's never resisted a bet or a challenge in her life.

"A perfect record doesn't make a good leader."

 _ _It doesn't make a poor one either__ , she thinks, raising her glass again. These are the kind of retorts she's quickly learned to avoid. Of all the things he'll find to accuse her of, being dense isn't going to make it to that list.

"If you have any advice, I welcome it," she says instead to Jorgan's obvious surprise. "Give it to me straight."

He pauses for a beat, then nods, and for the first time since she met him she can see a trace of genuine warmth appear behind his composure.

"I'll remember that, sir."


	3. Allies (Taris)

He first pegs her as lazy and he's not sure why.

Maybe it's some stray remark on Ord Mantell, some lingering posture from other groups she's belonged to, other soldiers she's worked with. Maybe it's her general attitude. Or maybe, Aric has to admit when they've been shipmates for a little while, it's his prejudice talking. She's a military brat – a __human__ military brat in the Republic army, at that – with a flawless record and he knows that this can either mean that you're damn talented and possess a fair bit of sheer dumb luck or that you're a brown-nosing little shit. It may not be his best trait, but he's quick to judge and she __had__ rubbed him the wrong way at first.

Lazy, arrogant little __brat__ , he had thought. Used to getting everything she wants, served and ready to go.

It's actually really far from the truth.

Most days Aric finds her in the middle of a training simulation before he's even had breakfast – she's picking the most challenging ones, too, putting her maximum capacity to the test – and in the evenings he finds her asleep in various places. She's devouring information about everything at the moment, reading up on galactic history as well as current intel; at times he catches her rubbing her temples when she studies, as though she's willing her brain to work faster.

"Did you want something?" She barely looks up from her after-action report when he stops in front of her seat. Her face is composed and expressionless, every line and angle sharp and focused. There's an urge in him, soaring low and dull at the back of his head, to tell her to relax, to get some __rest__.

"Coffee, sir, " he says instead.

An arched eyebrow, something slightly annoyed creeping into her tone. "I'm not making you coffee, Jorgan."

He can't keep from scoffing. "No, sir, I made __you__ some."

That, at least, makes his CO drop her report and look at him and he spots a little grin as she takes the mug he hands over.

"Right." She nods. "Thank you."

"No problem."

Aric nods back at her. He may be quick to judge, but he also prides himself on being reasonable enough not to act on his prejudices and to at least occasionally re-evaluate them entirely. Maybe he will in this case.

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The rakghouls get under her skin.

It's the general disease of the place, the various stages of decay – whenever she thinks about how Taris used to be __magnificent__ and how wars have torn it apart there's a hollow sound in her chest, like a longing for something she's never seen or had but that's still missing. Plus the fact that their chase through the slums and outskirts of Coruscant had left them empty-handed, left them chasing further and ending up here, on this dump.

 _ _Taris__ gets under her skin.

And then they met with Sergeant Dorne who seems like she's equally bothered by the situation and equally eager to actually act and Erviel doesn't even hear the accent at first, only hears the __familiarity__ in her voice. It annoys her that Jorgan doesn't agree.

"That was... interesting," he says and there's a taut crispness to his tone, a superiority she can't stand. Ord Mantell is too fresh for that, the memories too close.

She shoots him a glance; around them all tech in the outpost hum in their barely discernible way, the screens flickering like the blanket of stars that surrounds her ship. Usually she takes comfort in it but here it seems like it's mocking them. All the advances of century after century of hyper-advanced technology and it's still not enough to prevent scenarios like this one. Scars of old and filth that spreads into every corner, as if the ground beneath them protests against any re-colonization effort.

"Interesting how?" She is nearly taken aback by the irritation in her own voice that lands heavy in the air.

"I've had drill instructors more relaxed than that woman," Jorgan elaborates and it does nothing to improve Erviel's mood. Her history is full of officers like Jorgan, heck, her history is nothing but a map of officers like Jorgan and their nagging, condescending sourness masked as concern. __Not tough enough to take it? Go home.__

She is tough enough to take it. She's tough enough for a lot of awful things. Doesn't mean she's going to let others bulldoze them all over her to prove a point.

"Aw, looks like little Jorgan has finally met his dream girl."

They had begun to get along fairly well during the travel day to Taris. She had asked him about his time at the Academy, he had wondered about a few of her tutors and instructors; when the meals were served they had brought them to the main deck, shared them like soldiers out in the field. __What do you reckon this is supposed to taste like?__

Getting to know someone takes time, at least for her. It's a like a slow weave, a spider's net between people and she had felt it, __briefly__ , but still. Sensed it in a shared inside joke about the Academy, a reference spotted, a look exchanged.

Now Jorgan looks at her and she can't feel any kind of bond between them. His gaze is dark and cold.

"Don't be ridiculous. Uh, Lieutenant." Does he sound __hurt__? She blinks, suddenly regretting what she just said but the moment passes rapidly and Jorgan shrugs. "And...forget I said anything."


	4. Lucky survivor (Taris)

It's the earnest __decency__ in her that appeals to him, he thinks one long day on Taris where the sun is unrelenting and the stench of chaos floods their bodies. Sweat, heat, hunger, disease. The whole planet stinks of death. And in the middle of it, his commander carries herself with the kind of dignity Havoc squad ought to possess but hasn't done in a while.

But even beyond that, beyond her strength and courage, he finds someone who is brave enough to care. Quickly erased in new recruits clashing against the unflattering reality of war, the compassion seems to have rooted itself in her instead, gaining ground with every mission. It's dangerous to hold on to it because it might as well crush your spirit, but some do.

Aric respects that. Blast it, he __admires__ that and aspires to still – in some part of his consciousness - remains the youth who once signed up for military service to please his father but who found himself staying for the hard-won cause of it all. The __purpose__.

He had thought the lieutenant vastly different from him in this regard, but perhaps she isn't.

"I do love a challenge," she says, hands on hips and with that annoying __swagger__ that is rendering her the same woman who had irked all the hells out of him on Ord Mantell.

But he sees a backdrop now, he thinks as they set out together in the mornings. She may still act like she's got more brawn than brains and her disrespect for both ceremony and authority is no less flagrant but at the bottom of it, he can discern a proud and honourable Republic soldier.

Some days, he has to work hard to remind himself of this knowledge.

"I won't carry you back to the outpost, sir," he informs her as they leave their outpost to find a pack of diseased creatures that can infect her - for noble but ultimately dangerous reasons. It goes against all reason and code to be a guinea pig for scientists and he tells her this through gritted teeth. She still stands before him without armour, having been examined and measured against all possible medical standards before declared fit for the experiment.

It's such an unnecessary risk and time-consuming diversion that he has to struggle to keep his calm.

She throws him a glance over her shoulder as she begins to suit up. "Noted."

"So how __are__ you planning on getting to the medical droid then?"

"I'll walk," she says, sounding almost bored. It's one of the downsides of having an unshakable confidence in one's abilities. He __knows__ this, because somewhere at the back of his mind he recognizes his own faults in this woman's display of pride and reassurance.

He shakes his head, though he doesn't think she can see him doing it.

Aric's an idealist, too, but he knows the price of it. Faith doesn't come cheap and he's seen too many good soldiers lose themselves to vague sets of standards serving no other purpose than to break them, push them over the edge. There's no protocol for blind idealism and there's a good reason for it, too. The military code is carefully arranged around these matters; she ought to follow it better, though he knows that is a particularly vain hope to nurse.

And the thing with her, the little detail that simultaneously irks and fascinates him, is that she usually pulls it off, no matter how ridiculous the mission or how absurd the odds.

Today is not an exception, of course.

" _ _Blast__ ," she hisses an hour or so later; spitting words that form under her breath, between teeth that are pressed hard together. She has one arm around Aric's shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around her waist where she had let the animal bite her.

"You still look human, sir," Aric says dryly, unable to restrain the sarcasm in his voice. "If it's any consolation."

She glares at him, frowning, and then a small smile appears on her face and somehow – and for reasons he does not wish to investigate any further - it overshadows his irritation.

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There's some sort of bird nearby that makes a fairly annoying sound, Erviel thinks as she's trying not to get too restless. She's placed under supervision at the outpost, surrounded by medical droids and hooked up to various screens that announce her level of infection in regular intervals. Her hands rest in her lap, then they don't, her legs feel twitchy in this state of forced rest.

"I feel fine," she tells Jorgan for the third time. He's half-sitting against a desk, arms folded across his chest as he watches her with the same kind of intensity as the medical droids. It had been a silent agreement between them that if she has to sit this out, he would wait with her. She's grateful for it now.

"Of course you do, sir."

"No, I mean it. This is nothing-" She cuts herself off when she makes a sudden move and feels the nausea rise in her chest once more, leaving her shaking in her seat. __Damn it.__ Her orders had been clear enough - recuperate for at least two hours, off duty for the rest of the day, return for another screen tomorrow - but her heart had not been in it when she agreed.

Taris is a hot mess and she feels useless sitting here, even if it's just for a little while. She learns that people on the street view her as too pro-alien for not driving certain groups of refugees away in favour of other groups of refugees and she's still not sure. She's still not sure about the rakghouls either, or the tired, broken soldiers she meet everywhere.

"You're not used to waiting." He sounds amused - well, as amused as Aric Jorgan ever sounds, she suspects - and his tone hits something in her, digs its way inside. Not that he's __wrong__ , it's just the way he __says__ it. As though no matter how many days they add to their service together, how many travel days or old-fashioned field excursions they commit to, he will always find her slightly at fault. For whatever reason, for whatever crime. Slightly at __fault__.

"I work fast." Her own voice sounds grumpier than she feels and he catches the edge in it, she can tell by the way something shifts in his gaze.

"I'm used to much less moving about," he offers, then. "With the Deadeyes."

Erviel looks up; there's a light in his face when he speaks of his time with the Deadeyes and she can understand why - special group, special targets, really special missions focused on demoralizing and disrupting. She finds it rather impressive; she's not sure she'll ever tell him that.

"You must have chalked up quite a kill count," she says instead.

Jorgan nods and he might not show it but she knows he's proud. "Over two dozen confirmed."

"That's a lot of demoralizing."

The corners of his mouth twitch briefly. "That's what I signed up for – to fight Imperials."

Had it been that simple for her? She almost can't remember but she does remember that sense of knowing, even before she truly __knew__ , that she was going to lead a military life. It's in her blood and blood screams loudly.

"Tell me about your first mission with the Deadeyes." Erviel shifts in her seat, scratching the back of her hand. Every small sign from her body feels like a sign of impending doom in here with all the screens. She squares her shoulders, trying to ease the weight of it all.

The sergeant gives her a curious look. "Are you that bored, sir?"

She has to grin at that remark. "I'm __that__ bored."

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A/N: I had forgotten to update this when I updated the AO3 version. Now it's up to speed. :) Thanks for reading.


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